Draught of Lethal Hope
by Sterling silver
Summary: Severus must give in when he realizes that the Death Eaters have caused Minerva more trouble than they could have dreamed. WARNING: the aftereffects of rape and potentially controversial subject matter. Don't like, don't read. Otherwise, please rr.
1. One

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter! And as for the subject: Look. I know abortion is a touchy subject. I ask, however, that you please try and be civil in reviews or whatever. Flame if you feel that it's necessary, but please bear in mind that I am not supporting abortion per se. I am trying – and please, I'd love insight – to think about the psychological effects of both rape and abortion. I am not trying to condone anything. Got me? I'm glad.  
  
For those who haven't caught on yet: WARNING! Deals with the aftereffects of rape, includes swearing, and the termination of a pregnancy. Get out if you can't deal.  
  
*******  
  
"Severus."  
  
He looked up slowly. "No, Minerva."  
  
"Severus – I'm not wrong. It's been two months, Severus. Two months since – well, you know. Since then. The spells say I'm not wrong."  
  
"Minerva, it could be the effects of time. You know I hate brewing – those potions. I may be a cruel, coldhearted bastard, but killing unborn children is beyond my ability to stomach."  
  
"So you would rather kill me." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"Minerva, no, but . . . ."  
  
"But nothing. You can torture people to keep up an appearance but you're unwilling to save my life. Severus, I had no choice. It wasn't consensual, what did you think? I didn't spread my legs, lie back, or think of England. God – my memory's merciful to me, it's blurry in my mind – oh, but now I have this other reminder of their cruelty, too. I'm old, Severus. I bear the marks of a thousand disasters."  
  
"Minerva . . . ."  
  
"Severus, I can't bear this child. I'm young enough to get pregnant after being drugged and raped by Death Eaters – Dammit, Severus, your old friends – but I'm not young enough to bear the child. It will kill me, Severus, the child and I both will die if you don't do this. The question is how many people you want dead."  
  
He winced slightly as she reminded him yet again of his old position as a Death Eater, but he struggled to keep his own composure. She deserved that much. His voice was quiet, and forcedly even, when he spoke."I want you both to live."  
  
"That's not the option. You think I don't-- You think I- Look, you heard Poppy. It will kill me. Goddammit, Severus! I don't want to – I don't want- I don't want to kill my – this baby," she said, putting a hand on her belly slowly. Tears had begun to shine in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. There was a long, heavy silence, and then she gave a shudder. "But I don't want to die!"  
  
Severus Snape sighed, and looked at Minerva. She was thin and tired- looking, with skin sagging away from her bones and circles so dark under her eyes they looked like they had been painted on. He knew she was right, when it all was boiled down to the bones like she had been. She couldn't have the child and live. It was bad enough that she had had to go through what she had, even if she couldn't remember most of it.  
  
It had been a memory potion that he made that had wiped away that memory. The memory of the Death Eaters and their lust. His pity for her ran deeply, and he couldn't see why he was stalling. He owed her this, it was the best he could do. It would kill her if he didn't. Kill her – his brave Minerva—  
  
If the memories that she had didn't, either. He looked at her again. He hadn't seen her eat in three days, and she woke screaming from nightmares nobody knew how to end. She would flinch away at the lightest touch, and her eyes were wide with constant fear. He knew she didn't have the words for what she had endured.  
  
She hadn't let him take away all her memories. He wondered why.  
  
"Minerva, I . . . will make your potion," he said slowly. It was the look in her eyes that convinced him, but he sighed heavily.  
  
She collapsed to the floor of the dungeons, sobbing. "Oh, God, Severus, I don't know whether to thank you or to kill you, you know that? It's a living hell. I'm so afraid – so afraid - and now I know I'll live but it's hurting me all over again. If I thought there was a chance- any chance – oh."  
  
He wasn't sure what to do. Walking towards her, he reached out a hand. Her bony fingers extended slowly towards his and she took his hand, shaking. She let him left her to her feet.  
  
And she was crying in his arms, an embrace that even the cold Snape had heart enough to give.  
  
In the morning when Albus Dumbledore came down to the dungeons looking for Minerva, he found her sleeping, held in Snape's arms like a small child. He had stayed awake, sitting in his chair with her cradled on his lap, letting her cry and sob and vent and then, finally, sleep.  
  
"So you agreed?" Dumbledore asked, a sad smile in his voice.  
  
"I had no choice, Albus. You knew."  
  
"Yes, I knew. I knew also that she would keep the child if she could. She's a strong woman, Severus, but everyone has a breaking point."  
  
"Albus – even if I brew the potion, she's still a mess. She'd not eating, you can tell by looking at her, and we all know she's not sleeping. Her students worry; they'd rather have Transfiguration and all the homework that goes with it than to know that their teacher is -- like this." He paused. "I worry about her."  
  
"We all worry, Severus, but she'll make it. I know she will. She needs time, and what you have given her; a shoulder to cry on. When she wakes, let her stay as long as she will, and then I believe you have a potion to brew."  
  
"Yes," Snape said, and then Dumbledore quietly left the room. 


	2. Severus

Disclaimers same as before. I've got the unpleasantness of the warnings over, and now I don't have to be so grumpy about them. Cheers, y'all.  
I really don't have a clue where I'm going with all this. I didn't even mean to continue it when I started. But it kept yelling at me in the back of my head. I've always wanted to make the Hogwarts teachers human. Does that make sense? I don't think this'll end up Snape/McGonagall. Here we enter the mind of Snape, making Minerva's potion. R+R, please; criticisms welcomed, and flames too if you must.  
  
**  
  
Severus Snape sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers caught on knots. He thought for a minute, and then reached for a tall, slender book perched high upon a dusty shelf. He had been proud of that dust. With a quick brush of his hand, all the fine gray powder scattered into the air, drifting down to collect somewhere under the furniture, no doubt . . . .  
  
He turned the page reluctantly, feeling like he held something heavy in his hands. It was a simple enough potion as the recipe told it. He read it over, looking at the ingredients. Simple enough in its given form, but he could change it just a little to help bring down the pain. There were no ingredients to worry about negating. This recipe was one of the older ones; it had been used by women across the centuries.  
  
Snape hated it.  
  
He hated it as his fingers mixed the ingredients. He hated it as he watched the potion bubble. He hated it as he checked the temperature and waited the minutes it took to be complete. He hated it as he filled a vial with it. This potion was meant to kill, and to kill the helpless. But . . . . he was bitter, resigned  
  
He had been Minerva McGonagall's rival for years upon years. She was the Head of Gryffindor; he the Head of Slytherin. They were each the leaders of rival armies. Sometimes she was so infuriatingly Gryffindor. Sometimes she made him angry.  
  
But she was his colleague. She worked side by side with him, in the same building, in the same war. Snape had to acknowledge that she wasn't all bad. He didn't mind Minerva McGonagall as much as he made out that he did.  
  
And he couldn't help but feel that this was all his fault.  
  
Snape had once thought that he was immune to that feeling of guilt. It no longer manifested itself as guilt, certainly; but as a heavy, black cloak of a despair that settled in until it pulled his head down, blinding him, isolating him. He would look at his own arm and want to scream with revulsion. There, in black, was his own betrayal. Now, it made his arm feel like a leech, like it was not part of him, not part of his body.  
  
It was part of his body. It was attached to his mind. Even thinking of it now brought shame, and he looked down at his hands to see that they were shaking. There was no guilt anymore, just a long, tortured, inward scream.  
  
He supposed, as best he could, that that was what Minerva felt. That scream.  
  
And she was right. It had been the Death Eaters . . . his supposed comrades . . . (Lord, NO!) . . . . who had done this to her. Raped her. He bit his lip, and forced himself to say it out loud.  
"Rape."  
  
It echoed in the dungeons like a curse, one of the Unforgivables. Snape winced as his own voice came back to him. Damn, damn, damn, damn.  
  
He looked again at the potion. A potion for his rival, to kill, a potion to hate . . . . he shook his head. Minerva deserved better than that.  
  
A potion for his colleague. A potion so that she wouldn't have to die. A potion he didn't have to like, but could at least give the good courtesy of making without too much resent. For Minerva. And against Voldemort. He supposed, a bitter sigh escaping him, that he didn't have to hate that. Oh, but he didn't have to like it.  
  
He put away his cauldron, and put the book on the shelf. Its spine now gleaned with the absence of the dust. It was mocking him. Snape felt the first flash of anger he had had in the whole potion-brewing exercise. He had felt bitterness, yes, and revulsion, but not anger. He wasn't sure who he was angry at, but there he was, hands clenched tight, shaking hard, fighting the impulse to kick something and break it. Not Minerva, really. She couldn't help any of it. Perhaps himself, for being a heartless bastard. He was. He drew his imaginary dark cloak around his shoulders. He wasn't angry at Dumbledore.  
  
Voldemort? There was a good candidate for wrath. It was Voldemort's fault, Voldemort's war. Damn Tom Riddle, damn him! He wanted to find some way to subject the Dark Lord to the pain he had caused. He wanted to kill him slowly. He wanted to be the one holding the wand when it was done. With a sudden, animalistic growl of rage, Severus Snape swept some dust up off the floor and brushed it haphazardly down the book, making it look unused.  
  
Somehow, the sight of that lie only switched his anger to himself. 


	3. Poppy

All disclaimers still stand. Note: This chapter is more in Poppy Pomfrey's POV. I think I'm going to play around with the POVs a little. This idea had been running around in my head a little even before CrashCart9 suggested it, but she cemented it down. Cheers! As for all the so-called information . . . well, I'm making some of it up. I have to be. I'm firstly assuming the rather popular idea that power grants long life, and running with that. If your personal ideas of the aging process in the wizarding world clash with mine . . . well, write your own fic, then! =)  
  
**  
  
The door swung open with an almighty bang, and Poppy swore as Minerva flinched beside her. "Severus!" she exclaimed, upon seeing the Potions Master sweep through it, "Please, gentle!"  
  
Minerva gave a funny little hitched sigh, as she realized that it was Snape. Then, she shrank back a little from the angry look on his face. She pulled her papery hospital robes around her protectively, and said nothing.  
  
Poppy glared at the new arrival, becoming more and more cross as she realized how he had frightened Minerva. "You're going to upset her even more, Severus, stop," she snapped, reaching out a gentle hand to her patient. "Merlin's beard! What's put you in this mood?"  
  
Snape produced a vial filled with a dark blue liquid from somewhere within the folds of his robes. "I've made it, Poppy," he said heavily. "I apologize, Minerva." He handed the vial to Poppy, who took it with a brief nod, though still cross.  
  
She turned the small glass bottle over in her hand, and peered at it. "It's darker than I understood it would be, Severus. Different recipe?"  
  
He seemed surprised at her for the question, as though he had not expected her to notice. "I added some things," he said softly. "To make it easier on her. . . . Half of that amount will suffice."  
  
Poppy gave a little, appreciative smile, the annoyance softening away from her face. "Thank you, Severus," she said. "I will take care of her from here." She waved a hand slightly as a dismissal. Minerva's shoulder was tense beneath her hand, shaking slightly. Severus gave a curt nod, and turned, leaving the hospital wing rather abruptly. Poppy was somewhat more pleased to note that he closed the door behind him rather carefully.  
  
Once he was gone, Minerva spoke. "Poppy, I . . . ." she stammered softly.  
  
The younger mediwitch turned, and looked at Minerva McGonagall, letting her eyes be honest with her. She was seventy years old; though she had the outward appearance a fifty-year-old Muggle might have, with her hair still dark save for a few strands and the lines in her face more defined by worry than by age, Poppy knew that there were some things that magic did not preserve so well. Right then, the woman before her was very, very old; usually she seemed ageless, but now, she had a certain helpless, tired quality to her eyes. Poppy shook her head. "Minerva," she said gently, "I can't make you do this. I won't."  
  
Minerva's breathing was ragged, and she looked as though she were fighting back tears. She shook her head, in a wild, frightened sort of motion. "I can't – oh, Poppy, no, I don't want to, please, no," she begged incoherently.  
  
"It's your choice," Poppy said quietly, and moved to put the vial on a shelf. There was a strained silence for a minute, and then the mediwitch returned to sit next to her colleague. She felt terrible for Minerva; almost as though this were her fault. There were tears perched in the older woman's eyes, and she was shaking her head slowly, pleadingly. "Minerva," Poppy said again, consolingly this time. "This is your choice, Minerva. If you want to try and carry this child to term, you may. I will advise you against it, but you may."  
  
McGonagall gave a choked sound, and buried her head in Poppy's shoulder. She was crying, breathing in little hiccups of air. "What," she whispered, unable to raise her voice, "what will happen to me if I do?"  
  
Poppy was struggling to keep her voice level, and calm. "You have a thirty percent chance of avoiding miscarriage," she said gently, "and a seventy percent chance that you will not. If you make it the nine months, the odds are against you ten to one. If you miscarry, there's a forty percent chance of fatal complications, and only a ten percent chance that you will make it out unharmed. The other fifty percent of women who miscarry at your age suffer consequences that can completely disable them. You would not be able to do the kind of work you do, Minerva. It could become potentially unwise to teach. The more powerful the witch, the more likely to be completely incapacitated or killed. I need not remind you, Minerva, that you are one of the most powerful witches this world has seen in years. There is no gentle way to say this, but that's how my mother died, when she was sixty- five years old. The pregnancy was an accident, but she wanted to keep the baby. I lost them both." The odds were against her, by far. Poppy had another heavy flash of guilt, this time accompanied by fear. She didn't want to lose her colleague; she and Minerva had been friends for years. But this scene was all her fault . . . . when they had retrieved Minerva from the Death Eaters, she could have done this then, instead of waiting for two months . . . but it was notably unlikely for a witch of Minerva's age to become pregnant, so she hadn't thought . . . .if only she had thought . . . if only she had thought . . . .  
  
There was a long silence, broken only by Minerva's sobs. "Oh, Poppy," she murmured at last. "I know I'll do it, I know I have to, but God, I don't want to."  
  
"I know," Poppy said softly, stroking the other woman's hair as though she were a child.  
  
"Even though it's their baby, it's their twisted seed growing, oh, damn, Poppy, it's still – it's still . . . ." She put a hand over her abdomen, and lifted her tear-streaked face to face the mediwitch. Her voice changed suddenly. "Get it back before I change my mind," she said flatly, gulping back a sob and trying hard to look resolute.  
  
Poppy obliged, retrieving the vial and pouring half of it into a cup. Minvera held out her hands for it. Her fingers closed around the cup and she pulled it toward her, looking into it, wiping away tears. Poppy said nothing as Minerva's green, tortured eyes stared down into the dark liquid. At last, Minerva swore softly, and drank. The minute she was done, she broke into another choked round of sobbing. This time, she swatted away Poppy's proffered embrace, winding her arms around herself, tearing the papery fabric of her gown. Her fingernails were making little white moon marks on her skin. She looked as though she was in agony, but Poppy knew that this time it was guilt. The potion would need a few hours to take effect, and she trusted Severus' additives to make it a relatively painless process. She gave Minerva a moment to wrench herself apart in sobs, knowing that the woman would not want company immediately, and set off to fetch a Dreamless Sleep potion. Minerva accepted it, and a bed, rather gratefully when she returned, and wiped her tears rather roughly on her bedcovers.  
  
She spoke once more before she fell asleep. The recollection of that moment made Poppy shiver, because McGonagall had looked right into her eyes and said in a strange, almost flat voice, "You know, Poppy, I have never had a child." Then she drifted off.  
  
Poppy was left standing over her bedside, shocked. She had known Minerva was childless, but it had not occurred to her until now that that would torture the older woman. It was too much, really; too much for even Minerva McGonagall. Poppy had seen Minerva struggling to keep her composure in the halls, when the students were watching, but this – even personally, Minerva had always been a strict, rather uptight woman; she had had her lips pursed in disapproval, had her bun twisted up tightly to her head, and had been all business. Watching her fall apart now was like watching a different woman; a jumpy woman, nervous, suspicious, always on the brink of tears, more like a frightened mouse than a cat. Her even control had been shattered that night two months ago, and becoming pregnant from the ordeal had only made it harder. Minerva was childless? Poppy shook her head violently, suddenly wanting to cry herself.  
  
And what could she do? What could any of them do? Minerva was strong, but this had cracked the indomitable witch into quivering pieces.  
  
"I'm going to talk to Dumbledore," she resolved softly. "I don't know how to help her."  
  
The night seemed to stretch very ominously after that. The silence was oppressive; even the black-haired woman on the stark white bed made no sound. 


End file.
